


Where There’s Smoke

by JadedTimberwolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Death, He probably needs therapy, Immolation/Burning, Implied other unfun uses of weapons, Jack has Issues in this, Overwatch Halloween Terror 2018, slasher 76
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedTimberwolf/pseuds/JadedTimberwolf
Summary: Losing everything you love in one fell swoop can take quite a toll. Good thing Jack keeps up with his fair share of distractions.(Halloween 2018, in which the Slasher skin is Jack’s ”bad ending”)





	Where There’s Smoke

He watched the man from afar, hidden amongst the shadows at the opposite end of the alley. It was still fairly early, only just before sundown, but the drizzling overcast that currently draped itself over the city made it appear as though it was much later in the evening. Good. Jack had grown to like the dark.

The perp had yet to notice him, too engrossed in his third cigarette as he waited for some dumbass kids who didn’t know any better to come and buy some of his stash. Hidden somewhere in the deep pockets of his hoodie, no doubt. Not that it even mattered; he wasn’t here to indulge in some cheap high that would just knock him on his ass for a few hours (he had in the past, just after the fall, but anything he tried barely smoothed any of his edges). Jack side-stepped out of his hiding place and marched forward. The bandanna around the perp’s neck didn’t lie. It was decorated with the local gang’s insignia. Just another lowlife drug dealer and gangbanger that nobody gave two shits about.

Perfect.

The man finally took notice of him as he made his approach, stopping just underneath the fluorescent lighting from a nearby store. The dealer’s bloodshot eyes looked him up and down boredly.

“Hey buddy, Halloween ain’t ‘til tomorrow,” he quipped. Jack allowed a sharp exhale to escape his nose at that, the ghost of a laugh. The mask always provoked interesting reactions during October. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to show his face; he couldn’t give a damn if the whole world knew what Jack Goddamn Morrison did to get his rocks off nowadays. Rather, he liked the edge it gave him: nobody knew how the fuck to react when a six-foot-something-tall man in a hockey mask charged them from the front, and half the time, the piss-your-pants reactions he received proved to be the best part of his little hobby.

Well, maybe not the best part.

Jack paused and gave the man in front of him one last once-over. Despite his eyes and his laid-back demeanor, the man still seemed to be relatively sober. He liked it that way. It made what was to come next all the more interesting. 

There was a prolonged silence as Jack mulled over his options in his head. A few feet away, he watched the dealer squirm, dropping and stamping out the butt of his cigarette as he moved to stand straight.

“C’mon man, you’re creeping me out. Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna buy something?” 

Despite his best gangster bravado, Jack still heard how his voice wavered slightly, savoring the sound. He couldn’t help but lick his scarred lips underneath his mask. Already he had a plan for this one.

The dealer was starting to look flighty, inching a few steps closer to the street and almost ready to make a break for it. It was then that he lunged, grabbing the man’s skinny-ass neck with one hand and pinning him back against the brick wall of the alley. He watched, an eyebrow quirked with a morbid sort of fascination, as the man’s pupils dilated with fear, the reality of the situation setting in as he tried to scramble away. Jack held him there for a second or so longer, the man’s desperate struggles nothing more than a tickle to him (at least the SEP bullshit proved useful for  _ something _ ), before he raised his free fist and clocked the unlucky bastard across the face. He let go and watched the man drop like a bag of cement, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Jack reached down and deftly untied the bandanna, stuffing it in his back pocket. Then he took hold of one of the man’s legs and tugged, dragging him deeper into the alley with ease.

He still had work to do before the night was over. 

—

Setting up shop in the old lumberyard just outside of town turned out to be one of the best ideas he’d ever had. Not only did it give him privacy, but tinkering with the various tools and equipment strewn about the abandoned depot helped him busy his hands during the long nights in-between his little excursions into the city. In the back of his mind, Jack remembered the rusty buzzsaw in the yard’s millhouse - he had a plethora of ideas for it that he wanted to test out. It was a shame he had been able to get it working before he had to move out. It wasn’t wise for him to stay in one place for more than a month or so. Still, if he ever came back through this part of the country after some time had passed, he’d definitely consider camping out at the lumberyard again. The surrounding nature and the smell of pine trees was really relaxing.

Jack finished dumping the third canister of gasoline onto the woodpile and tossed it off to the side, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Not one of his usual setups, but with all the extra timber lying around, he figured that he ought to try and experiment a bit. Perfect timing, too: his new friend was just starting to wake up. It didn’t take him long for the terror to set back in. Jack heard him curse as the barbed wire dug into his wrists and scratched at his pant legs, binding him to the central post centered at the top of the woodpile. Trapped like a mouse. The two met eyes, and the younger of the two looked to be near tears.

“L-Look man, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want, j-just let me go,” the man stammered out. “You want drugs? We got- we gotta  _ shitton  _ of drugs back at the warehouse, I can show you if you just lemme go. C’mon!” 

In response, Jack silently reached into his pocket and pulled out a flip lighter, not breaking eye-contact as the small flame flickered to life, lighting up the silhouette of his mask in the darkness of the October evening. The last thing the poor bastard will ever see.

The man practically  _ whimpered,  _ his voice rising a whole octave as his bottom lip quivered, the tears flowing freely now. “No, nonono _ nonono please I don’t wanna die—“ _

Should’ve thought of that before becoming a drug-dealing degenerate, asshole. 

Jack tossed the lighter into the woodpile and watched as the blackness around him suddenly surged with an angry orange-red. The man’s agonized screams echoed throughout the lumberyard as the ravenous flames descended upon him and lapped at his flesh, searing his skin and tearing it away into nothing more than blackened string in mere seconds. A billow of heavy black smoke quickly amassed above the center of the lumberyard, not unlike the one Jack remembered from Switzerland, as his terror-filled victim was roasted alive in front of him.

As the pathetic pleas and cries began to taper out, Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the nearby flames wash over him. It reminded him of simpler times, like the brush-burnings and cookouts he used to attend as a teenager, of the beachside bonfire he and the rest of the strike team had celebrated around during that one victory tour through California. All memories before he had responsibilities, before he allowed everything to go to shit. He chased that feeling, clung to the memories for as long as he could before the moment inevitably passed and the numbness returned, as it always did. 

He left the fire to burn itself out for another hour or so, taking the time to organize his belongings and get ready to set out again come morning. The people in town would notice the smoke come sunrise. As he packed, he tidied up a few leftover bits and pieces of some of the other delinquents that had been unfortunate to cross paths with him, but ultimately didn’t bother too much. He figured the crows would clean up after him sooner or later. A swell of what almost felt like pride flooded over him as he recalled some of his recent, more creative executions; he wondered what the press was gonna say about this next batch.

Once the flames had extinguished and the woodpile was reduced to nothing but charred wood and withering ash, Jack went back outside and re-tied the gang bandana around the blackened skeleton’s neck. Just a little warning, in case his friends ever came looking for him. In all honesty, the authorities should be _thanking_ him, cleaning up the streets like this. 

Jack checked the time on his watch: 2 in the morning. Might as well get some sleep before he had to get moving. He’s earned it after a productive day of work. Best of all, he’d still be long gone before the fire department got here to investigate.

Where to go next? It was probably best if he moved over a state or two. He would probably head somewhere warm, now that winter was setting in. Now that he thought about it, Mexico seemed to be temperate enough year-round. Perhaps it was time he gave Los Muertos a visit.

Jack took off his mask as he laid back onto his ratty sleeping bag, setting it down next to his gun just beside him. He stared at the ceiling of the mill for a while, recalling the man’s screams upon the stake before his eyes grew heavy and drifted closed. The smell of burning flesh still lingered under his nose as the numbness engulfed him in sleep, and the slasher once again found himself chasing after the smiling ghosts that haunted his dreams. 


End file.
